Catch

Just because I think that you might be thinking that I write way too much about drunk people I thought I would throw this blog entry your way.

I woke up this morning with a sore side and a stiff neck and some pain in my left arm. For that first waking moment–not entirely conscious–I wondered if there was something seriously wrong with me. Of course there wasn’t, I realized in my second waking moment. Then I figured I had slept the wrong way or something–I certainly don’t have a comfortable bed. But no that wasn’t it. Yeah, in my third waking moment I remembered that yesterday, during Padraig’s baseball practice, D^ and I played catch for a solid hour. And at my age you don’t horse a baseball around for an hour without feeling it the next day. But that’s not important anyway.

Catch is an amazing thing. Probably the single most absolute act of bonding between father and son. (Unless of course you live ‘North of Route Nine’ in which case making vegan soy loaf together for the potluck is an acceptable substitute.) The repetitive back and forth of the ball, combined with the guy conversation–“nice catch”, “way to scoop it out of the dirt”, “how do you think Dice K will do tonight?”–has got to be the greatest experience in the world. Ahhh, catch.

I’ve also noticed that D^ has been suggesting that I coach his team. This is notable because up through the end of last year he was solidly in the camp of “Dad, leave the coaching to the coaches.” And if the suggestion itself wasn’t enough to get me to help out the team even more than I already do, he added “but I know it takes up a lot of time…” I know what that’s all about.

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